Prologue
Shane
I took a last drag of my cigar and chucked it over the edge of the cliff. Half the club was out here at the Greeson Quarry tonight, raising hell. Fuck, they’d been here for days. There were huge bonfires going, booze, drugs, and scantily-clad women. Motorcycles were screeching up and down the steep pathways into the depths of the site.
Dante was dead, and they were dealing with it in their own, destructive way.
God, I fucking hated the skin I was wearing.
But I needed to make a point.
Until a few days ago, a bad man had run the club. Not just bad. Many men were bad. Hell, most people were a little bit bad, or at least a lot less than perfect. But Dante had been a truly sick fuck. Twisted to the core.
Bad to the point of being inhuman. He hurt people for fun. He killed and tortured for fun.
Why else would he kill a young reporter trying to show the biker culture and Hell Raisers in a favorable light?
Billy. My brother. That’s why I was here. That’s why I’d disappeared from my former life almost five years ago. I’d bought a beat-up motorcycle and ridden it cross-country. I’d gone deep, taking risks on the road, using drugs, drinking nonstop, and covering my body with tattoos until I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror. That’s when I knew I was ready.
Only then did I approach the club that I was convinced had been involved with my brother’s murder. Nothing had ever been proven, but I got ahold of the police file. I knew what they thought.
Dante fucking did it.
He killed my baby brother.
And then he took his eyes.
Or maybe, and this was the part that kept me up at night, maybe he took his eyes first.
So here I was. I’d gotten my revenge on Dante, but it wasn’t over yet. Not even close. Dante hadn’t been working alone. He’d had cronies. A helper. Maybe one of them had even held the knife.
And now I was a killer too. I hadn’t just killed Dante. I’d tortured him. I’d defiled Dante’s body and relished his pain. Doing that had changed me irrevocably. Now, I could finally get inside his head. Now, I could find Dante’s twisted crew because I was just like them.
I was so far gone I knew there was no way to go back home again. Not that I wanted to. There was nothing left for me back east. Nothing and no one. I was filthy now, inside and out, and I could never, ever get clean again.
Not that I fucking wanted to.
People said I was crazy. Stupid. Reckless. Even other bikers thought I was nuts, and that was saying something. They didn’t know the half of it.
I was way past crazy. I was fucking desolate. My soul was gone, burned clean from pain and the never-ending desire for bloody, agonizing revenge.
They were talking about giving me Dante’s place. President of the Raisers. That would make it easier to maintain control and catch the killer. It would also make it harder for me to leave. But hell, once I ended this once and for all, I knew I had nowhere left to go.
That’s if I lived long enough to find peace again. If it was even possible. With how fucked up I felt inside, it would take a hundred years or more.
I turned in a circle to get some distance. Not too much, or there wouldn’t be much of a thrill. There was a platform about twenty feet down and a dozen feet away. I felt a welcome shot of adrenaline as I rode off the edge of the cliff. Not fear, but something like it.
Even fear was better than feeling absolutely nothing at all.
Chapter One
Shane
Three years later
A bottle slid down the table toward me. I grabbed it just before it hit the ground, cracking the seal and taking a swig. I exhaled in pleasure at the burn as it coated my throat.
I never lost control, but I was adept at riding the fine line between comfortably numb and shitcanned. I made sure that I appeared to lose control all the time. It made me too unpredictable to fuck with.
I had to live up to Dante’s image to keep the degenerates in line—minus the murder and torture. The threat of my fists was always there, and I enjoyed handing out a good ass kicking. I carried several knives and a gun. But I didn’t kill anyone.
Well, except one. But that had been like putting down a rabid dog. Dante had more than deserved it.
I grimaced and stood up, deciding to get some air. The clubhouse was fucking packed. Smoky and hot and smelling like leather and drunk men. And ass.
But at least I didn’t have to worry about losing my seat.